Healing Soup
by Autumn Bells
Summary: Sherlock hasn't eaten for quite some time and feels faint. John saves him from a fall and heals him with soup. :) No slash.


**Author's Note: **** I came across this idea when I found myself thinking, 'How does Sherlock never eat?' Then, this story simply flourished by itself. Despite what happens, I'm not sure whether or not Sherlock learns anything, but it's all in good fun, right? This little snippet doesn't take place in a particular time sett****ing. Perhaps just as John is learning how to deal with Sherlock. I hope to do the characters justice! Please review and enjoy!**

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Sherlock found himself blinking an awful lot in order to keep his vision focused. The light from the microscope was giving him quite the migraine, but he was hours away from solving a case. There wasn't a chance of him stopping for something so trivial. He stared into the 100x lens, watching the reaction of glucose molecules with ammonium molecules. He looked away from a mere moment to write down his progress on a notepad beside a Bunsen Burner.

His finger twitched in annoyance when John folded a newspaper from across the room to read a different article. "Damnit, John!" Sherlock yelled suddenly and looked up at John, causing the doctor to jump. Sherlock noticed how John's figure was slightly blurry, but he managed to blink it away. He spoke quickly and angrily, "How about instead of reading about the news day-in and day-out, you actually make yourself useful to me and phone Lestrade to inform him that I've got a break-through in this case!"

Sherlock returned to his microscope, as if expecting John to not answer. Something of an awkward silence followed his rant, but it was broken after John cleared his throat.

"I'm not sure what gave me the hint, but is something upsetting you?" John asked calmly and set the newspaper on the coffee table.

Sherlock refused to give a reply as he scratched down some more information on his notepad. The sugar reacted just as how he expected. However, when Sherlock turned to look at his notes, a dark wave tried to overtake him and the colors around him mixed and melted. Confusion swept over the consulting detective as the ground rushed up to meet him. Sherlock's instincts kicked in and his hand shot out to find the table, stopping his fall, but causing the microscope to crash to the ground. Unable to scream in frustration about his injured treasure, Sherlock froze in spot and simply waited until the darkness was replaced by light and all the colors returned to their respected places. It was only then did he feel one of John's hands on his back and one on his chest, balancing him.

"Sherlock, are you-?" John began, but spoke too slowly.

"I'm fine," Sherlock interrupted quietly, the anger from earlier melting away and gently pushed his friend away. John turned only to pick up Sherlock's fallen microscope.

"You're obviously not fine," John replied, setting the science equipment back on the desk. "You're as white as a sheet!" John gingerly placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead, whom was much too weak to slap it away. "You're clammy, as well. When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock couldn't help the rolling of his eyes as he slumped into the couch below the painted-on smiley face on the wall. "Please, John. If I wanted to be mummy-ed, I'd phone Mycroft." Sherlock found himself smirking at his own joke, but John was not amused. Sherlock watched in silence as John inhaled sharply, as if just remembering something. The doctor pushed back his sleeve to stare at his watch and after realizing what time it was, he let go of the oxygen he had been holding.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, examining why he seemed disappointed; nicer, indoor shoes, hair brushed, instead of normal plaid, he was wearing a dressier shirt.

"Are you late?" Sherlock asked about John's date. For a mere second, the doctor looked taken aback by Sherlock's knowledge, but upon realizing that it was Sherlock he was talking to, he shook his head.

"No, but I'm afraid I will be," John answered, pushing his sleeve back to his wrist.

"The restaurant is five minutes away!" Sherlock exclaimed, running his hand through his midnight black hair. This time, John gave Sherlock a look that said 'and how did you know where we were going?'

"I saw you looking at the brochure yesterday," Sherlock explained quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the headache away.

"Ah," John put his hand behind his back and turned away. "I'm going to be late because I'll need to take care of your annoying arse." John disappeared in the kitchen before Sherlock could complain. The consulting detective was startled by the fact that John was willing to stay for such a trivial matter!

"I don't need your help!" Sherlock shouted into the kitchen, throwing his legs onto the couch and curling into a ball.

"I know, I know!" John shouted back, followed by the sound of the microwave beeping. Sherlock shut his eyes. There was no way in hell he was going to get John to leave him alone. Fighting him would be futile, when he was more interested in playing doctor. After a few minutes of some clanking noises in the kitchen, John reappeared with a plastic tray. Sherlock sniffed the air and he felt his stomach jump at the scent. He flipped around once John placed the tray on the coffee table, revealing a hot bowl of soup and a spoon.

"Eat something and then rest. You'll feel better by morning," John informed, backing up just enough to plop into the chair diagonal from Sherlock, who sat up to examine the soup. It was light red with a hint of green seasonings and some chunks of chicken. Obviously made from a can, but considering the scarce amount of food they had in their apartment, Sherlock wasn't surprised John couldn't whip up something better.

Hesitantly, Sherlock glanced up to find John picking up the newspaper, most likely to view his horoscope, which Sherlock found that John was easily amused by it. The consulting detective took the spoon in hand, skimmed the soup so only the broth would settle into the small dip in the spoon, Sherlock brought it up to his mouth and sipped it. Despite it coming from a can, it was quite good. The warmth of the soup immediately spread from his tongue to his throat and to his arms, warming his body. He didn't realize how cold he was until he had a reference.

"…" Sherlock muttered after setting the spoon into the empty bowl.

John lowered the paper to look confusingly at him. "What was that?"

"….ks," Sherlock tried again, but it came out just as soft, so he tried a final time. "Thanks."

John laughed, which took Sherlock by surprise. "Wow. The great Sherlock Holmes showing a rare bit of gratitude."

Sherlock rose his voice at the slight embarrassment. "If you're going to milk this, John, I promise you-!"

"Alright, alright," John folded the newspaper and stood. "Think you can handle yourself until I get back?"

"I didn't need you to begin with," Sherlock informed, returning to his cold demeanor. However, he was glad John didn't take it to heart.

"Of course you didn't," the doctor chuckled. Just as he was walking out the door, John turned back towards Sherlock. "Try to sleep! Call if you need anything!" And then the door to 221B Baker Street slammed shut, leaving Sherlock alone in the apartment. Sherlock laid back on the couch and shut his eyes. But before his consciousness swept away from him, the back of his mind told him that he was lucky to have John as a flatmate.


End file.
